


Keep the Crown, I'll Make my Own

by BadgerApple



Category: Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Mafia AU, OCs - Freeform, Reader-Insert, no name is given to the MC, so please project to your hearts content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadgerApple/pseuds/BadgerApple
Summary: Scarafraggio Shoggoth is head of the most powerful mafia in Italy, and owner to some of the most prestigious museums in the world. Of course, most of the items were brought to him illegally, but it's no skin off his nose, at this point. A street artist from a small country disagrees. Although they don't have a fraction of his power or wealth, this small-time artist is determined to give this mob boss a run for his money.
Relationships: Gio/Reader, Scarafaggio/OC, Scarafaggio/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Keep the Crown, I'll Make my Own

**Author's Note:**

> The Dons started as a mafia AU to Beetlejuice, and then just expanded into their own characters at this point tbh. Gio is the Italian Don of the group, called The Conglomerate. 
> 
> I didn't create the dons, but you can find those who did in the link below
> 
> Link to the master list of the dons here: https://monsterlovinghours.tumblr.com/post/190008355719/hey-mom-who-are-the-5-mafiabeej-leaders-and

Heartbreak was a word that did not cover the emotion for the country of Delgaudio. Their crown jewel, the pride of this small country is gone. Stolen under the cover of night. With not even a coward to step forward and demand a ransom.

The crown was worn by Delgaudio’s most beloved queen in their entire history, crafted by a mysterious, unknown jewelsmith. Say what you will about the monarchy, but when their queen passed the only thing she left behind was her crown and the end of the monarchy. Quickly after she died, she set the founding blocks for democracy for this small country, preparing it for the brave new world it was soon about to enter. To Delgaudio, the crown not only represented the end of an era but the mark of hope that this small country could live in peace and prosperity once more.

Historians and the art world mourned its loss as well. Not only was it a precious piece of history, but it was also priceless: rare gems covered it in its entirety, gold, and silver displaying it perfectly. The creation of the crown was an act of love as much as it was beloved by all who saw it.

A street artist of Delgaudio, a dime a dozen among their peers, heard that a museum in Italy was displaying a replica of the crown in honor of its loss. They scrape what little funds they have and decide to go, mourning its loss and hoping for closure.

They see the crown in the museum and recognize it instantly. They spent years studying this crown, every artist of Delgaudio has incorporated it into their artwork at least once. Anyone from Delgaudio would realize that this crown in this Italian museum is most definitely not a replica, but the real thing.

They're furious, seething. They try to find the director of the museum, causing a big scene, screaming, kicking at security guards trying to escort them back, demanding an explanation. Instead, a sleek man in the most expensive suit you've ever seen appears in front of them, seemingly out of nowhere. He arches an eyebrow, clearly unamused, and in a condescending voice he asks, "Can I help you, _piccola_?"

"Yeah, you can help by returning what was _never yours in the first place."_ They point back to the artifact, displayed in a glass box, countries away from where it should rightfully be. "That crown is the original. It is the pride of my country. Return it. _Now._ "

The man _smiles_. It's small and tight-lipped, but his eyes, golden as some of the items in here are bright with barely contained fury. "You flatter my artists, _piccola_ , but this is not the original." They grind their teeth. If they weren't held back right now by the guards, then Mr. Gucci here would definitely be losing some teeth right now.

" _Liar_ ," they hiss, venom spilling into their tone. Restrained but still defiant, they spit right in his face.

The man flinches, his pretty little face contouring into disgust. His fist clenched around his cane, his anger barely contained by a hair at this point. They smirk, hoping this distinguished man shows his patrons who the criminal here really is. He sees their smug expression and they can practically feel the anger radiating off of him now. He takes out his handkerchief and wipes the spit off his face. He glares back at them, and if looks could kill they would have been turned to ashes already. He looks back at his guards, ignoring them as if they were just a speck of dust on his jacket.

"Show them the door. Get their name and ID down before you do. They aren't allowed back in here ever again. If they show up at the premises again..." he looks back down at you, sneering, " _assicurati che questo topo di strada non torni più._ "

Their ass hits the concrete of Italy’s street before they have the chance to spit at him again.

*******

They're back at the hostel they were staying at, asking every local they can for information about that Mr.Gucci jackass they spoke to earlier, trying to find a weakness for them to exploit. Righteous fury clouds their mind, one track in their goal to end this thief once and for all. It isn't until an old lady slaps them upside the head that they finally listen to their stories.

" _Bambino sciocco!_ That man you spoke to was _Gio Shoggoth_ , the biggest don in this city! Of course, the crown is the original, he wouldn't accept anything less! But do you think that will actually make any difference if you try to accuse him of it?!?"

"But it's the truth!" They shout, not caring for Gio's status or influence. The woman pinches their ear, bringing them closer to her.

"He is the head of the mafia! Do you think a man like him cares about the truth?! Everyone in this city is under his thumb, and if they aren't they either will be soon enough or are at the bottom of the river. Be grateful you got out _alive_." She leaves them with that, stumped, as she shuffles off, done with trying to make them see reason.

They sit there for a long time, going over what the woman has told them, trying to go over every possible route where no, she's wrong and that the crown can be returned to them. It isn't until the sun finally sets that they, begrudgingly, admit that she's right. There's no way they could get anyone to listen to them in this city. They don't have any connections like he does, no power to their name, no favors to call in. They're a fucking street artist, a meager following on their art Instagram and Twitter. They can't even go back and rob the place because they're sure to be caught if they do. Sorrow seeps their very soul. They can't win. They can't do _anything_.

He's _won_.

They kick their backpack in frustration, ready to admit defeat when a rattling from inside it catches their attention. They open their bag. A spray can. A plethora of them they just bought from an art market nearby. Originally, they planned to use them back home for one of the bigger pieces they had in mind, but a sparkling new idea started to take form. It's dangerous, it's risky, and they still might not win after they roll the dice. But still, one thing is for certain.

It'll be terrible for Gio Shoggoth's business.

They dig out their sketchbook immediately. There’s no time for figuring out how to scale it, they’ll figure it out once they get there. Moonlight is wasting and there’s no way they can stay here in this hostel once they’re done. Relying on kindness from strangers isn’t an option either. Once they do it, they have to leave the city, probably the country as soon as they can. That crook may keep the crown tonight, but by morning, he’ll definitely be knocked down a few pegs. And with men in any position of power, reputation and pride is what they build their egos on. Hopefully, this will take a stab at _both_ by the time it’s done.

Finally satisfied with your design you slip off into the night, time not on your side. Adrenaline pumps through you as you walk down the streets of Italy, the fear keeping them on their toes, pride forcing them to take the next step after the next. The crown wasn’t his, wasn’t this country’s. Righteousness kept their eyes from drooping shut. Sleep wasn’t on the table, and neither was failure.

They get to the museum. The lively streets of Italy asleep for only a few hours more. It’s surprisingly easy to scale the side of the building: the close buildings finally working in their favor instead of making them feel claustrophobic. The cover of night is their only ally: the moon, the enemy and their friend as it guides them in their work and threatens to give them away if someone looks their way for too long.

It’s not what they originally planned, but the message is loud and clear. They work tirelessly, their arms aching as they go through spray can after spray can. A rope, a harness, and a rusty old rain gutter are the only things that are keeping them from becoming a Street Artist Pancake. They work as fast as the drip of the paint will allow them too. It’s exhausting work having to work this long, this fast, with no breaks in between, but they persist nonetheless.

Dawn breaks and at long last, their masterpiece is finally done. The paint will wash off with some heavy-duty solution that will take the whole day to remove, or he will have to paint over it entirely. Either way…. Bad for business at the end of the way. They might only be a pebble in his Armani shoes, but damn if they weren’t going to be the most annoying pebble he has ever known.

The streets of Italy awake, the smell of pastries fill the air as people rise from their slumber and get ready for the day.

A scream pierces the lazy morning’s air. People run towards its source, expecting to find the worse: a dead animal, a dead body, or something worse. In a way, they were right.

Flocks of people gathered around the Shoggoth Museum, horror and cellphones on every person when they saw the face of the most powerful man in town painted onto the building, the words “ _re di bugiardi e ladri_ ,” king of liars and thieves, written across his face—the Delgaudio crown on top of his head.

*******

Gio is _furious._ He’s seen the state of his museum, _from the screen of the mansion’s television._

Scarabee, of course, thinks it’s hilarious. “Well, looks like that little _rat de rue_ wasn’t so easy to get rid of as you said they were, eh, _mon amie_?” 

Gio throws his plate at the southern don in response. 

“ _Quel piccolo marmocchio,_ ” he growls, his hair glowing bright red. The news anchor is going on and on about how an unknown artist came to the museum yesterday, shouting at the owner, accusing him of stealing the crown to hold it in his museum. Cellphone footage played of them spitting in Gio’s face over and over again on _live television._

“Do you think they do commissions?” Bee snickers, the screen zooming in to Gio’s face-- the crown in particular. 

Cia chimes in, lips twisting to the side in amusement, “I think they captured you likeness perfectly, _mo chara._ ”

Bajo, of course, adds in, “ _Si._ They captured your haughty expression to a _T._ ” The two trouble makers snicker as Gio’s hair turns a violent crimson. They burst into all-out laughter when he throws his coffee mug at them too. 

Zhuk sighs, folding his paper in half. He hasn’t even finished his coffee yet. “If you need any assistance with this pest, you know we can h-”

“No,” Gio cuts him off, massaging his temples in a desperate attempt to calm down. “No, _grazie,_ but…” he inhales deeply, slicking back his hair and fixing the few strands that fell out of place during his fit, “No. This is a personal matter. I didn’t deal with this brat like I should have done before, and now I am going to take care of this the _right_ way.” 

He looks back at the screen. A photo of his face is side by side with that _horrendous_ excuse for a portrait is still there, the news anchor doing a cover on who he is… and what he _does._

The grip on his cane becomes vice-like. He storms out of the room, already getting his secretary on the phone to spin this in a more positive light for his business. His blood steams with every step he takes.

_He was going to make that brat wish they were never born._


End file.
